Teresa and Lady Beaufetheringstone nodded in sober agreement.

“I shan’t introduce you, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” Lady Beaufetheringstone pursed her lips. “You are far too young and innocent to be thrown into the mouth of the lion . . . just yet.” She took Teresa’s arm. “Now come, child. I will make you acquainted with more suitable gentlemen. That addlepated ninny Hortensia Piffle will succeed in finding you a satisfactory husband when pigs fly. Like two peas in a pod, she and your mother . . .”

Diantha watched them move away. She didn’t worry for Teresa. If one of society’s greatest hostesses took her friend under her wing, it could be only to Teresa’s benefit. And her mind and heart were filled with someone else entirely.

What had Wyn known about Mr. Eads—Lord Eads—that he hadn’t told her? It hurt. And she did not want to hurt, not because of a man who had apparently abandoned her to her fate.

Why hadn’t he come?

She turned about and blindly walked toward the French windows. She must speak with Lord Eads. She must make certain Wyn was safe, even if he did not want her. She realized this now rather belatedly. And hopelessly. She would have forgiven him if he had come to London. She would have forgiven him everything. And begged his forgiveness in return.

Her brother stepped in front of her, his smile broad. “There you are, sis. You look very pretty this evening. Musgrove and Halstead here have been begging me all night to make introductions.”

She greeted Tracy’s friends, smiled at their flatteries, and promised them sets, but she barely attended. Weak inside with a strange sort of tragic longing, she allowed her gaze to wander and, through a break in a cluster of guests, met Lady Emily Vale’s stare. She forced her lips into another smile she did not feel.

Emily’s green eyes remained sober as she turned them directly across the dance floor toward the door to the ballroom. Diantha shifted her attention there and the bottom fell out of her heart.

For it was most certainly her heart that Mr. Wyn Yale commanded. And whether he sat on a stool in his shirtsleeves milking a cow or stood in a ballroom dressed in formal attire and so breathtakingly handsome that she could not breathe, she knew whatever he chose to do with that tangled organ, it would be thoroughly at his mercy.

Chapter 25

Beneath hundreds of chandelier candles she sparkled, dressed not in maidenly white but gold like the firelight sparkling in her hair. The layers of her skirts glittered by some seamstress’s skill, fluttering about her toes in the breeze from the dancers passing by. She seemed unaware of the other guests, and that she was staring at him, her berry lips parted and the pink stain on her cheeks flushing down her neck and across the soft mounds of her breasts.

He went to her, regretting that he had not come directly to London, and abruptly understanding the truth of why he hadn’t. Because he could not think when he saw her, and he greatly feared that—not thinking—he might do something precipitous for her. To her.

She moved toward him, her brow pleating. “Lord Eads is here.”

“Good evening, Miss Lucas.” He bowed and could not withhold his smile. Even cloaked in displeasure she dazzled him.

“Did you hear what I said? Lord Eads?”

“Naturally I heard. I am standing right in front of you.” Yet not close enough. Her scent of wild sunshine twined about him, her slender hands that had been so confident upon his body now clenching in her skirts.

“I knew you did. I was simply emphasizing my point to say Lord Eads twice. Now thrice.”

“I understood that.”

“I am emphasizing in this ridiculous manner, you see, because I am endeavoring to employ irritation to distract myself from alarm caused by the fact that he is in the same place as you. What are you doing here?”

“Watching you dazzle those gentlemen you just walked away from without a backward glance. No, don’t look. They may not like you to see them licking their wounds.”

She expelled a hard breath. “And you say I am nonsensical.”

“Who are they, Diantha? Your brother I know, but the others I don’t recognize. Is one of them Mr. H?”

“Tracy only now introduced us.” A spark of intention lit her eyes then. “But I am surrounded by scores of suitors every day, so it is difficult to keep their names straight in any case.” She gestured with an airy hand. “So I simply call them all George.”

“And does this system suffice?”

“Suffice?”

“To put them all in their places as you are attempting to put me in mine?”

“You did hear me say thrice that Lord Eads is here?”

“I believe I recall you mentioning that, yes.”

She twisted her dance card with fraught fingers. “And why don’t you seem as concerned about it as I?” Her tone had altered, her distress quite real now. Wyn’s smile faded.

“I’ve known Duncan Eads for years, Diantha. If he truly wished to harm me, he would have in Wales.”

She blinked rapidly, quick, short breaths lifting her breasts to press against the bodice of her gown. Her dimples were invisible. “You are a dishonest person.”

“I have been so.”

“I should not have trusted you.”

“You should not have. But you did, and we must both now live with that.”

Her cheeks paled, her gaze seeking, but a spark in it dared him to contravene her again. And Wyn knew he wanted that—her—tenderness and need matched with strength and determination. He wanted to pick her up and carry her from the ballroom and sink himself into her and remain there, lost together until he discovered every secret she held close and until she knew every truth of his life, every villainous deed and heroic desire.

Her eyes shuttered. “I have something to tell you.”

“I am listening. Always.”

“It seems that Mr. H does not care about my virtue, or lack of it. He thinks that a lady of spirit is bound to have had some adventures of the amorous sort, just as he has.”

Jealousy, hot and fierce, gripped him, which she intended, the minx. Carlyle had not mentioned Highbottom in his letter, but perhaps her suitor had applied to Tracy Lucas. But this game of coquetry was new and he would know why she played it.

“A free-thinker, is he?” he said between clenched teeth.

“I’m not entirely certain. I should have asked him, but it’s been a remarkably busy fortnight since I came to town.”

He tried to read her eyes. “I arrived only today.”

“How nice for you.” She smiled politely, as though it meant nothing to her, but there was a brittleness about her raillery that caught at his chest.

“I went to Yarmouth, Diantha.”

“Yarmouth?” She visibly controlled her surprise. “And how is the duke?”

“I did not see him. I delivered Lady Priscilla and came here as swiftly as I could.”

“Oh.” Her brow tightened, then her luscious lips, and her facade collapsed. “Don’t imagine you can saunter in here looking outrageously handsome in all of your London elegance and I will forget everything. I think I am still angry with you.”

“Diantha—”

“I wish you would not address me in that manner. I am Miss Lucas to these gentlemen, and no doubt it would have been better if I had remained that to you too.”

“These gentlemen, I suspect, have never seen you three sheets to the wind.”

“Of course they haven’t.”

“Or on your knees on a dusty floor in prayer.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “You saw that? I did not mean for you to see that.”

“What were you praying for, minx? That I would die swiftly and you could continue on with your mission?”

She did not reply at once, and about them music swirled and dancers cavorted. “I prayed that I would stay strong for you. That I would be what you needed.”

Wyn’s heart stumbled, the most disconcerting sensation. But he’d been disconcerted since the moment he encountered Diantha Lucas in a Mail Coach. “I daresay the fruits of your prayer merely gilded the lily.”

Her eyes shone. With the return of that light, she was again the woman he had watched climb a tree, the woman who had finagled her first kiss in a stable, the woman who had changed his life though he’d fought every moment of it.

“You seem well,” she said.

“I am. Now.” Better than he’d ever been.

“I mean, you look well. You look . . .” Her gaze slipped over his shoulders and chest and her cheeks flushed again. “ . . . well.”

“I intend to call on you tomorrow. I have a question to ask you.”

“A question?”

“Yes. But now is not the best moment for it. Your brother is looking daggers at me.” And if he had to endure her eager perusal much longer he would be hard pressed not to take her off to a secluded alcove so that perusal might turn into something much more satisfying.

Her brow dipped. “I don’t know what is wrong with him.”

“Perhaps he does not like it that I have distracted you from his friends. I will retire and leave the field to your eager suitors. For the moment.”

“But—” She laid her hand on his arm, and his body flooded with heat. “What of Lord Eads? Are you telling me the truth?”

Wyn grasped her fingers, blessedly gloved, bowed over them and whispered, “Minx, if you touch me again inappropriately in a crowded ballroom—if you touch me in any manner at all in this ballroom—I will not hold myself accountable for what I do to you before the watching eyes of hundreds of people.”

Her throat jerked delicately. She withdrew her hand. “Please tell me the truth about him. I want to help if I can.”

“I have told you the truth. I don’t believe he poses a threat to me.”

“But you don’t know that for certain.”

“That I am now alive is excellent evidence.”

“Perhaps he has only been waiting for opportunity.”

“He would have had it at countless moments upon the road to and from Yarmouth.” Despite her brother’s glare, Wyn stepped closer to speak quietly below the music and voices. “Diantha, be at ease about this.”

“I’m afraid I cannot be. My nerves are rather high on the matter. When you did not come to London immediately, I imagined all manner of—all manner . . .” She turned her face from him.

Wyn’s chest tightened. He did not want her confusion or distress. He wanted her exuberant smile, her open laughter, and her hot, generous body in his possession at the earliest convenience.

Then her lips opened in a little O and she whispered, “Good heavens!”

He should follow her attention to the source of her surprise, but he could not look away from that perfectly round, soft, berry-pink opening. Her parted lips released a soft breath; he imagined it brushing his skin. He could taste her already, feel her body in his hands, her hands upon him. The memory of those fantastically capable hands blotted out all but the urgent need to have her beneath him.

“The Misses Blevinses!” she uttered.

He wrenched his gaze aside. Two ghostly ladies from a bygone era tottered into the place in draping yellowed lace and dull jewels.

“I never would have thought to see them here.” Diantha laid her palm impetuously upon his chest, and Wyn saw but one solution to both of his pressing needs.

“Mrs. Dyer, would you care to dance?” He grasped her hand, wrapped his other about her waist, and swept her onto the floor. Diantha might have laughed except for the persistent prick of worry inside her. But the thrill of happiness welling up proved stronger. He had come, he was not in danger, and he was dancing with her.

His arms were strong and his direction, she soon realized, purposeful. With effortless grace he maneuvered them around other couples across the floor toward the crowd opposite—away from the Misses Blevinses. This was not really a dance; it was an escape.

“Mr. Dyer, we will draw attention.” She could not resist her joy. “The patronesses of Almack’s have not yet given me permission to waltz.”

“Lady B is a far more liberal hostess.” He guided her off the dance floor and swiftly between clusters of guests, tucking her hand beneath his arm. “Case in point.” A French window was propped open, cool air streaming in. He tugged her through, grasped her hand, and she tripped along behind him into a garden. The half-moon was bright, the night air shedding gooseflesh across her bare arms as they skirted a fountain flanking a row of tall rosebushes. It seemed a remarkably ornate place, crowded with robust statues and high hedges and deep shadows everywhere.